


An Unbalanced System

by Askellie



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Awkward Flirting, Foursome, M/M, Polyamory, Unintentional flirting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-27
Updated: 2020-01-27
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:00:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22428250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Askellie/pseuds/Askellie
Summary: (AKA: What happens when you introduce new factors into a state of equilibrium.AKA: Give Edge what he wants 2020.)“Hey buddy,” Sans begins, trying his best to seem nonchalant. It’s already too late; he tends to forget that Stretch is the one with the Judge’s eye, not Blue. “Look, we really need to have a conversation about the way you keep raiding the Edgelord’s fridge.”
Relationships: Papyrus/Papyrus (Undertale), Papyrus/Sans (Undertale), Sans/Sans (Undertale), SpicyHoneyKustard, Spicyhoney, Spicykustard - Relationship
Comments: 25
Kudos: 186





	An Unbalanced System

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hj_skb](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hj_skb/gifts).
  * Inspired by [ain't this the life](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12319578) by [nilchance](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nilchance/pseuds/nilchance). 



> Hello HJ! 8D I was your Secret Santa this year! I hope you like this AU of Ain't this the life with added Swap Brothers!

Sans shows up at the hotdog stand just after the breakfast rush, three hours earlier than their usual swap-over time. Their sleeping schedules work out nicely; Stretch tends to be up through the night with manic energy and nicotine jitters, usually crashing in the early afternoon, while Sans likes to roll out of bed just around lunchtime. It’s allowed them to cash in on the previously untapped market of Embassy employees who like their breakfast-sausage to go, and it's easy work that keeps Blue happy in the knowledge that Stretch isn’t languishing away in his room as freeloading deadweight to Papyrus who has so generously taken them in. 

Stretch lifts his hand in a lazy wave that falters when he sees the expression on Sans’s face. It’s a look of constipated amusement, a stifled humor being valiantly held in check because the joke is too awful to justify it. He doesn’t even get a word out before Sans is ambling over to him, hands buried deep in his pockets and shoulders hitched awkwardly up near his acoustic meatus.

“Hey buddy,” Sans begins, trying his best to seem nonchalant. It’s already too late; he tends to forget that Stretch is the one with the Judge’s eye, not Blue. “Look, we really need to have a conversation about the way you keep raiding the Edgelord’s fridge.”

Stretch glances down at the tupperware container in front of him, the half-devoured slice of lasagna a baleful indicator of his guilt. Even unheated, cold from the fridge, the bechamel had been luxuriantly creamy and the cheese succulently melted; unfairly delicious. Edge might be an uptight stick in the mud, but he sure as hell knows his way around a kitchen. 

“Why?” Stretch pouts, putting on his best blameless little brother expression, hoping it’ll be as effective on Sans as it is on Blue. “You know he keeps enough leftovers in there to feed an army. S’not like he’s going hungry.”

Edge seems to have some sort of thing for stockpiling food. Every container that Stretch filches is always diligently replaced the next time he goes looking, which means Edge’s fridge is a never-ending bounty of wondrous snacks, none of which -- thankfully -- are tacos. In his own universe, Blue only learned the recipe a week ago from Alphys, but the muddled dejavu of the repeats has left Stretch feeling like he’s been eating nothing else for years on end. He can barely cope with the sight of them anymore, let alone the taste, and unfortunately his brother is still trying to perfect the recipe with the slightly more competent aid of Papyrus.

Though the emphasis on that sentence is definitely on the ‘slightly’ rather than the ‘competent’. Papyrus isn’t much of a cook either. There’s a reason Stretch prefers to take his meals from Edge than the earnest attempts of home cooking from Papyrus and Blue.

“It’s not like that, it’s...” Sans says, glancing absently towards the distant shadow of the Embassay building beyond the edge of the park. He looks like he’s hoping Edge himself might come and save him from having to have this conversation, but bravely he pushes on, “Look, you’ve probably figured out that the place Edge and Red come from was kinda rough. Monsters were getting pretty scarce, and so were the resources, so things like exchanging food are kinda a big deal for him.”

Stretch had never considered that. And it kind of makes him feel like a jerk. Now the mountains of food in Edge’s fridge -- more than he and Red could reasonably eat in a week, but enough to hold out if there were a sudden shortage -- makes a lot more sense. 

But at the same time, it’s not like there will be a shortage, right? Not here, on the gloriously bountiful surface. (And yeah, Stretch is a selfish bastard who really doesn’t want to have to go back to choking down tacos every other day.)

“Look, it’s not like I don’t appreciate his food,” Stretch tries. “Should I start writing thank you notes, or-?”

Sans balks, gesturing wildly like he can shoo that notion right out of their conversation. “No, no, look, it’s uh. It’s a come on, okay?”

Stretch blinks blankly at him, unsure if he heard that right. “Uh...what?”

Sans needs a moment to gather himself, like each word is fighting desperately to be anywhere other than in his sentence. “Giving food is kind of like a proposal, and you and the Edgelord aren’t exactly ready to be holding hands.”

That was not at all the reasoning Stretch was expecting to hear. For a moment he thinks Sans must be having him on, some kind of bewildering prank, but no, the expression on Sans’s face is all flustered honesty. There’s a blush on his collarbones that’s trying to creep up to his face that he seems to be holding back by sheer force of will. 

Stretch’s mouth works soundlessly for a few moments, a coherent response completely eluding him. The best he can manage is, “O...kay?”

Apparently that’s good enough for Sans, who seems eager to declare the conversation over and done with. 

“Yep. So. look, if you need lunch, you know I’ve got you covered, right?” He gives an encouraging wink, finally joining Stretch behind the hot dog stand now that he’s done laying out the peculiarities of Murderworld courtship. He bumps his shoulder against Stretch’s hip with companionable affection. “There’s this milkshake at Grillby’s I think you’ll love.”

“Don’t think I won’t take you up on that” Stretch says, pleased. He’s much more fond of sweets than savoury food, and he guesses this must be Sans’s way of reassuring him that sharing food in this universe isn’t the same kind of social faux pas it is in Edge’s. To test this, he nudges the tupperware container towards Sans. “Since I stole this one anyway, do you want some? The Edgelord’s lasagna is pretty damn good.”

Unexpectedly, the blush at Sans’s throat finally makes the jump up to his cheekbones, burning a faint cyan across his face. “Uhhh, nope. No thanks. I...already ate.”

He’s not lying, Stretch thinks as the Judge murmurs uneasily in his skull. But that’s not the reason he refused. Outwardly he gives a philosophical shrug, like it doesn’t matter to him either way, but it’s hard not to notice the strange expression on Sans’s face as Stretch shamelessly lifts another forkful of lasagna to his mouth and takes a generous, appreciative bite. 

* * *

Sans chooses to hang around until his shift starts, which is always a good time. Even though they manage the hotdog stand together, Stretch doesn’t see as much of him as he does Papyrus. When he and Blue first fell into their universe, Sans and Papyrus opened their home to them, as they had apparently done for Edge and Red before, but after a week Sans apparently decided four skeletons was too much for one household and jumped ship to move in with their sharp-toothed brethren. Papyrus seemed strangely understanding of this in a way Stretch wouldn’t be if Blue suddenly wanted to move out.

He’d first thought (rather uncharitably) that Sans was feeling the Judge’s compulsion to keep an eye on the pair in case their LV got the better of them, but when Edge shows up every day to take Sans to lunch there’s nothing but fondness and familiarity between them. Today is no different except for the new light in which Stretch regards the two carefully stacked lunch boxes Edge is carrying. 

Sans gives Stretch a cheery wave, promising to be back soon, and as the two head off together Stretch can almost feel an audible click in his skull as a jigsaw puzzle of clues and observations finally comes together in full, technicolor picture. 

Edge and Sans are a thing. A _thing_ . A _holy-fuck-actual-romantic_ thing. What’s more surprising is that the revelation doesn’t come as a complete and utter shock. Some small part of him has been suspecting that there’s been something going on, and that part seems to throw up its hands in an exasperated, ‘FINALLY’, as the rest of his brain belatedly catches up. 

He waits for some sort of shock or horror or disgust to set in -- Sans and Edge are just a butterfly’s wing flap away from being brothers -- but scandalised outrage utterly fails to take hold. All he can see is the way Sans’s guarded smile turns soft as he looks at Edge, and though Edge is never exactly relaxed, there’s definitely something in him that loosens incrementally in Sans’s presence. 

It’s--

( _Cute. Charming. Enviable. Unfair_.)

\--something.

No wonder Sans felt compelled to have the awkward talk with him about stealing Edge’s food since that’s tantamount to Stretch soliciting his bonefriend. He doesn’t seem to be holding a grudge, though, and the next day when Stretch foregoes his usual shortcut into the Edgelord’s kitchen to swipe another tupperware container, Sans makes good on his promise and takes Stretch to lunch. The milkshake is just as good as promised, and he and Sans trade awful puns at the bar until even Grillby’s hardened customers are begging them to stop.

Stretch checks a dozen times over, but not even the Judge can see a hint of upset or resentment in Sans’s expression. For some reason that observation is still niggling at Stretch several days later when the other skeleton household comes over for dinner. 

Papyrus insists that they share a meal at least weekly so they don’t forget each other’s faces (he’d declared it very seriously, with a pointed look at Sans). Not even Red dares to skip out on it, although his motivation might be purely for the food. He doesn’t seem to mind the sometimes questionable offerings from Papyrus and Blue, and will even graciously compliment them both as he scarfs down the burnt and oily remnants that everyone else tries to avoid. 

Their arrival is heralded by a perfunctory two chimes of the doorbell, which tells Stretch that Edge is the one pushing the button. Stretch is lounging on the couch, doing his best impression of someone whose legs won’t work until after the food is served, so Blue rushes out from the kitchen to answer it. Around the hubbub of his brother’s excitement, Stretch watches Sans skirting past, balancing a tall stack of containers. It’ll be Edge’s cooking, of course, but Stretch used to wonder why Sans was always the one to carry it in. Evidently it’s to protect Edge and Red’s questionable virtue by circumventing their food offering rules, which is both absurd and kind of hilarious. The realisation must be showing on Stretch’s face, because Sans gives him a sheepish grin as he carries his offerings into the kitchen so Papyrus can serve up. 

It gives Edge the opportunity to stalk up to him, scowling down at Stretch with his usual pinched expression. “At least take your shoes off if you’re going to put your feet on the couch, you filthy heathen.”

The first few weeks, Stretch had found Edge’s snarky attitude grating. The comparison was insulting, facing a version of himself who was such a sourpuss. It was an unflattering reminder of some of Stretch’s worst days back in his own universe where even Blue’s cheerfulness wilteded beneath Stretch’s acidic refusal to leave his room or eat -- lashing out at his brother, the only viable target for everything in his life that couldn’t be changed and refused to be ignored.

That reminder makes him much more conscious about reigning in his temper and countering all Edge’s biting remarks with a bright smile and an unrepentant wink. “Hey now, you can’t expect me to reach all the way down there. My arms aren’t that long, you know. It’s rough, being as tall as I am.”

Stretch’s new moniker is the result of the curious height advantage he had over both his cross-universe counterparts, and not even Edge’s impressive heels can make up the difference. Bringing it up always makes Edge hilariously snippy, and usually derails him from whatever other complaints he’s trying to make.

“Ugh,” Edge grunts, stomping off like he needs to go supervise the kitchen and not like he doesn’t want to stick around to have his face rubbed in his shortcoming (heh).

Though getting the food from the kitchen to the table does seem to require the kind of precise, military organisation that Edge is so good at. Ignoring the chaos, Stretch sneaks out for a smoke, ignoring the subtle movement of the door when Red peers out to check on him. By the time he comes back inside, there’s a feast laid out that would do the Queen’s court proud, and everyone is meandering towards their usual places. 

In a burst of inspiration, Stretch ignores protocol and snags the chair to Edge’s right instead of his own. Red arches a browbone at him from across the table, but wordlessly accepts the swap, taking Stretch’s usual chair next to Blue instead. The corner of his sharky smirk hitches up a few increments in knowing amusement; he’s always had a good radar for knowing when shenanigans are about to go down, and he doesn’t complain as long as all he has to do is sit back and laugh.

Edge is much less tolerant. The glare he directs at Stretch is long and narrow, but ultimately he chooses not to say anything either. After a moment, he’s forced to turn away, caught in an argument with Papyrus about the outrageous introduction of an airfryer to the local school’s canteen. 

Stretch watches the distribution of food carefully, his conversation with Sans at the forefront of his mind. Papyrus and Blue easily pass plates back and forth between each other without a hint of tension. Anything they offer towards Red is accepted gleefully, with a generous portion added to his plate before being set back down. He’s very careful about not handing off any plates of his own, Stretch notes with interest. He’s starting to realise there’s more rules to the food exchanging thing than Sans chose to induct him about. 

Sans is sitting on Edge’s other side, across from Papyrus, and any plate that comes his way Edge intercepts. Stretch watches him examine the dish -- even the ones he’s cooked himself -- then put it back down before carefully selecting another and then carefully sectioning off the most attractive looking piece to put on Sans’s plate, and then a second one for himself. He’s also very deliberate about putting the dishes back down instead of offering them, even going so far as to ignore Stretch’s open, beckoning hand. Without looking at him, Edge only sets the dish firmly on the tabletop and gives it a half-hearted nudge in his direction, a deliberate snub.

It makes Stretch feel--

( _Amused. Annoyed. Discouraged. Hurt_.)

\--something, and that something prompts him to take the more aggressive approach the next time Edge has a dish in hand.

“Hey, me too, Edgelord,” he says just as Edge finishes doling out the first scoop of scalloped potatoes onto Sans’s plate. Edge gives him a startled, affronted look, like Stretch just asked him to disembowel himself. Stretch only grins, tapping his plate impatiently. “Come on, you already gave Sans some. I want it too.”

A stormcloud of indignation is brewing on Edge’s features, but unexpectedly, Red starts chortling across the table. “Yeah, Boss. Don’t play favourites now. The Honeybun wants his serve.”

The furious scowl is diverted to Red for a brief moment before, being redirected back to Stretch. It’s the kind of look that makes his nerves prickle and his magic flush hot in an anticipation of violence that never eventuates. Instead, Edge very deliberately puts the plate down and says through gritted teeth, “Serve yourself.”

Stretch leers victoriously at him. “Okay, I will.”

It’s only because Edge isn’t expecting it at all that Stretch manages to pluck a corn cob from the rim of Edge’s plate and bite down on it before its former owner can so much as blink. Stretch doesn’t even like corn -- the kernels have a nasty habit of getting stuck in his back molars -- but the taste of his stolen plunder is almost as sweet as the utterly poleaxed expression on Edge’s face. 

Red cracks up, almost falling out of his chair with laughter. It’s a few seconds too late to worry about what Sans’s reaction might be -- Stretch really didn’t think his actions through before he went ahead and did it -- but Sans looks just as amused, hands fixed over his mouth to hold back his chortling. Edge gives him a betrayed look that only has Sans shrugging helplessly.

“Brother, don’t be rude,” Blue scolds from across the table.

“He started it,” Stretch complains, delicately revolving his stolen corn cob to a fresh, unbitten side. In a slightly lower tone, he adds, “But it’s fine. I got what I want.”

He takes another bite, slow and exaggerated, and though he doubts the sight of vegetable juices running down his chin is particularly salacious Edge’s sockets go gratifyingly wide. The expression on his face says he can’t tear his eyes off Stretch, and that he’s hating loving every second of it. The intensity is overwhelming, and abruptly Stretch loses his nerve to keep escalating the game. He suddenly isn’t as certain he knows what he’s doing anymore.

He wipes his mouth, and then sheepishly offers the corn cob by way of apology. “Uh, here. You can have it back, if you want.”

A moment too late he remembers what food offering actually means to Edge, whose eyelights have shrunk to sharp points of banked heat. Across the table, Red mutters an impressed, ‘whoa,’ under his breath. Sans is facedown on the table, hiding his expression, which is great because Stretch can’t stop the mortified blush of realisation that he just accidentally propositioned Edge at the dinner table, right in front of his brother.

Fuck.

Thankfully Edge’s composure recovers more quickly than his own. Before he can figure out a way to take it back without making himself look like an idiot, Edge pointedly turns away and tells him, “No thank you. You can keep it.”

“Uhh...right. Sorry.” Stretch hastily sets the cob back on his plate and feigns intense interest in his food. He doesn’t dare look up again, knowing with two judges sitting at the table there’s every chance they might catch on to his confused disappointment that Edge didn’t accept. 

* * *

The next few shift changes at the hot dog stand feel awkward, or maybe it’s just Stretch overthinking things. He knows he fucked up, and he keeps expecting to see his mistakes reflected in Sans’s eyes the way he’d always found them in Blue’s. He doesn’t catch sight of it, but he’s too much of a coward to stick around for long. He’s got a long list of convincing but made-up excuses to give him reason to head off as soon as Sans shows up, and he’s never been more grateful for having an easy shortcut away from the possibility of an uncomfortable conversation.

Of course, avoidance doesn’t work forever, and after a few days of his disappearing act he finds a note taped to the top of the hotdog counter when he takes it out for the morning shift.

_muffets has a new menu. lunch is on me today._

Stretch can recognise a bribe when he sees one, but it’s a very effective one. Stretch won’t ever turn down the offer of free food, especially since he can’t raid Edge’s fridge anymore for his daily pick-me-up.

Ten minutes past Sans’s usual arrival time, the skeleton in question still hasn’t shown up, but neither he nor Stretch have ever been particular sticklers for timeliness. Stretch gives a philosophical shrug and lights up another cigarette.

Twenty minutes later he’s starting to wonder if he should be feeling hurt at being forgotten, or worried since Sans has never been this late before. Another ten minutes plants him firmly in the worried category, and he’s starting to wonder if he should gamble on whether Sans actually charged his phone and try calling when there’s a strained sounding pop of sound and Sans staggers out of a shortcut. Literally staggers, like he lost control of his momentum at some point during the void despite its complete lack of actionable physics.

“Whoa, hey!” Instinctively, Stretch lunges forward to catch Sans before he face-plants into the grass. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” Sans says unconvincingly, swaying on his feet. “M’okay, just...maybe should’ve tried for a shorter shortcut.”

Awkwardness forgotten, Stretch looks Sans over, taking in the dark rings of his sockets, the ghastly pale of his bones, and the slight sheen of sweat glistening across his skull. “You, uh. Really don’t look so great.”

Sans snots. “That’s a nicer way of saying it. Red told me I looked like barfed up garbage.”

“He’s not wrong,” Stretch says wryly, keeping a firm hold on Sans’s jacket. It might be the only thing holding Sans upright. “I think you should go back to bed, dude.”

The look Sans gives him is as pitiful as it is earnest. “I offered you lunch.”

Stretch shakes his head firmly. “And I won’t forget it, but let’s hold it for another day, yeah?”

“Okay,” Sans says meekly, defeated. It wasn’t exactly a heroic victory on Stretch’s part. Sans looks like he’s about to pass out, and Stretch is just trying to figure out the fastest way to get him off his feet when a solution to the problem arrives in the form of a scowling skeleton in attractively tight leather pants. Edge’s long legs are devouring the distance at a speed that could probably put a marathon runner to shame even though he looks as poised as if he were on an afternoon stroll. The look on his face says he’s ready to eviscerate someone, but Stretch can see the worry shining through it, painfully obvious. 

As he gets closer, Edge pulls out his phone and barks into it, “He’s at the hotdog stand.”

Stretch doesn’t have time to brace for the second intrusive pop, so he startles when Red appears at his elbow, looking aggravated. “Goddamnit, Sansy, what the fuck did I tell you?”

Sans makes a pitiful, congested sound, but his grin is set in a belligerent line. “I dunno, I mean all you spout is bullshit so I just tune it out.”

“Fucker,” Red grouses, moving to hold up Sans’s other side. He looks up at Stretch, and though his concern isn’t as blatant as Edge’s, it’s pinching his face like he’s fighting off a migraine. “S’alright, Honeybun, I can take it from here.”

“Right, yeah,” Stretch says, hastily letting go. There’s something almost aggressive (possessive?) about the way Red pulls Sans closer, and Stretch instinctively backs away from them both, feeling like an intruder. Flustered, he digs through his pockets for his cigarettes to hide the sudden quiver in his phalanges. “Maybe tie him to the bed this time, yeah?”

“There’s a thought,” Red replies with grim amusement, a growling undertone in his voice that sinks uncomfortably into Stretch’s marrow. 

“Save it,” Edge growls back, stepping up to Sans’s other side. He peels off one of his gloves, revealing shockingly pale and elegant finger bones that Stretch has never seen before. Edge puts his palm to Sans’s forehead, and gives a dissatisfied huff. “You’re warmer than you were this morning. No more shortcuts until your fever goes down.”

Sans gives a long-suffering sigh. “All right, Edgelord.”

Seeing Sans braced between the two, Stretch feels a stab of--

( _Fondness. Satisfaction. Longing. Regret._ )

\--something. He’s clearly had the wrong idea about why Sans chose to move out with the Fell brothers. The affection clearly runs both ways, and deeper than Stretch ever expected, especially from Red who hardly gives a damn about anything. The way he has his arms wrapped around Sans, bracing his weight with care and ease, is making that little corner of Stretch’s brain gesticulate frantically, trying to call his attention to it. He ignores it, standing off to the side and trying not to feel like a fourth wheel (which is funny because if this were an engineering problem, a fourth wheel should make the situation more stable, not less so). 

“Take him home,” Edge orders Red, pulling his glove back on. “And don’t take your eyes off him, this time.”

“Yes, Boss,” Red agrees, giving Sans a significant look like he’s giving sincere consideration to Stretch’s off-hand suggestion of tying him up.

Sans ignores him, looking past Red’s shoulder at Stretch with a look of uncertainty that swiftly coalesces into resolve. “Wait.”

He reaches back to tug on Edge’s scarf, pulling him down. For a startling moment, Stretch thinks Sans is going to kiss him, but instead Sans murmurs something against his acoustic meatus too softly to be heard. Whatever it is makes Edge’s face go oddly blank, and Red give a small frown.

“You sure about that, sweetheart?” Red asks.

“Yep,” Sans agrees; an unusually direct response to such a loaded question. He and Red look like distorted mirrors of each other, matching expressions of uncharacteristic seriousness as they each other’s faces like it’s a game of chicken. “What about you?”

Unexpectedly, Red loses the staring match, glancing away first. He scoffs. “Heh. You know me.”

That seems to be all he has to say on the subject, but Sans nods like he gets it. Then he beams carefully brushes his teeth against Edge’s sharp cheekbone, the fleeting ghost of a chaste kiss that nonetheless makes Stretch flush hot and cold. “You have fun, huh?”

And then in a blink, Sans and Red are gone, leaving Edge hunched oddly over in the space of their absence, his face still curiously frozen, like whatever Sans said to him made his brain stall out mid-thought.

Stretch knows better than to shake someone with such high LV, but he inches closer, waving an arm in front of Edge’s vacant gaze. “Uh...you okay there?”

Edge starts, and suddenly he’s back, straightening back up to his usual perfect posture. His stare pulls back from the distance to settle on Stretch, pinning him in place as surely as if he’d put a hold of blue on his soul. “Of course I am.”

“Right…” Stretch says uneasily, trying not to squirm. “I guess you should be getting back then, right?”

He tilts his head towards the embassy building, but Edge just shakes his head. “When I left, I wasn’t sure how easily Sans might be found. I advised Undyne that I might need the rest of the day, just to be sure. They’re not expecting me back, so now I find myself with an unexpected allotment of free time.”

“Oh. Cool.” Stretch would have thought Edge was the kind of person who would have dragged himself back to work with two broken legs, but maybe even he can’t resist the siren call of a day off. “You going home, then?”

Edge shakes his head again, looking oddly tense. His arms are folded defensively across his chest, his red gloves stark against his black shirt. “Sans tells me he was intending to take you to lunch.”

Stretch falters at the unexpected turn this conversation is taking. “Well yeah, but he’s sick, y’know? It’s fine, we’ll just do it some other time.”

The line between Edge’s browbones deepens with impatience, like Stretch is deliberately missing his point. “He asked me if I would cover for his absence today and accompany you to Muffet’s Cafe in his stead.”

Stretch tries to close his jaw before the gaping becomes too unattractive. He swallows, feeling the dry click as his throat works against nothing. “You wanna take me to lunch?Isn’t that, uh...kind of a thing for you?”

It feels oddly embarrassing to articulate the particulars of said thing, but instead of looking annoyed, Edge gives a small, wickedly sharp grin. “Knowing that didn’t stop you at dinner last week.”

If he’s trying to fluster Stretch, it’s working. His cheekbones feel got, and he doesn’t know where it’s safe to look. Not at Edge, certainly. Maybe at that nice patch of grass. “Yeah, well. That was me being an idiot.”

And thankfully Sans had forgiven him for it, although now it feels like circumstances are conspiring to get him right back into trouble again. It’s not fair for Edge to be giving him that look, sockets hooded and radiating the proud smugness of a cat that’s found its way into the cream.

“Nonetheless, I am making the invitation.” For a moment, Edge is the very picture of unassailable confidence, like he couldn’t imagine anyone would dare turn him down. It’s so striking that Stretch is having trouble stringing together a coherent answer, and in those few moments of stark silence Edge seems to deflate somewhat, looking far less sure. “Unless you don’t want-”

“No!” Stretch protests immediately, his soul pounding hard against the inside of his ribs. “I mean, that’d be great! I’d love for you to take me.”

The words come out in a desperate rush, and he realises too late that he’s left his sentence in the worst possible place.

“To Muffets, I mean!” he adds hastily, but it’s too late. His dignity is a lost cause. He has to fight the urge to put his face in his hands, knowing that his blush is probably obvious.

But goddamn, if Edge’s smug amusement doesn’t look good on him. The way he stalks forward now is different from his earlier stride: no longer a hunter chasing down an elusive prey, but one who knows his target is thoroughly cornered with no place to go. There’s no haste in him as he steps closer, taking Stretch gently by the elbow and looking up into his face.

“Then take you I will.”

 _Fuck_ , Stretch thinks weakly, trying not to go weak at the knees. He has no idea what the hell he just agreed to, but somehow he can’t bring himself to regret it. 


End file.
